The Great Gatsby' - Alternate Ending
by pineapplelemon
Summary: For a school assignment, we rewrote the ending to 'The Great Gatsby'; figured I may as well upload mine here. Nick x Gatsby. Rated M for violence.


**-p. 132- (Starting after "...it's all wiped out forever.'")**

**She looked at him, her eyes bright. **

**He prompted her again, an insistent eagerness in his voice. "You never loved him, Daisy."**

**She looked away, across the room. Our eyes met for a moment, then she fixed them on the carpet. Her voice was husky with emotion when she spoke. "I never loved you, Tom."**

"**Wha-what do you mean? Is that true, Daisy?" Tom replied furiously, his jaw tense. Daisy pressed her lips together firmly and nodded, avoiding his gaze. **

"**I don't believe it," Tom spat out, bursting out of his chair. "It's all a lie; you're just trying to convince her of your foolish little fantasy. Well, it won't work. Come on, Daisy." He motioned at her as though beckoning a servant, with a jerk of his wrist. **

"**No, Tom, I won't," said Daisy suddenly. Her voice choked up and she tried again. "I'm leaving. Now. And you're not coming with me," she added angrily as Tom took a step towards her. **

**It felt like we were watching a film, Jordan and I, something you were a part of, in a sense, but disconnected from the scene, sitting in the audience and watching actors on a screen. The emotion hung in the air, filling the room like a heavy fog, to the point you could almost taste it.**

**Daisy jerked up out of her chair like a marionette whose strings were just pulled. Her heels left indents in the thick rug as she walked past the coffee table toward the door, staring straight ahead. Gatsby, who had been standing at the side of her chair during the whole thing, swiftly followed her. Taking her hand as she left, the door closed a second later with an unsatisfyingly quiet** **thud. Tom's eyes blazed with ****reproach** **as he glared at them leave.**

**It would have been awkward to look anywhere; I ended up glancing at Tom after a moment. **

**The look on his face was indescribable, a sort of terrifying cavern of distant anger. This was far more intimidating than the Tom of moments ago, the loud-mouthed, red-faced Tom who sneered at Gatsby and Daisy and the idea of them being together. Now, the look on his face was as if he had killed someone. **

**I suddenly, desperately needed to leave. I had wanted to the whole time - I never wanted to come to the city today, in fact - but now it became urgent, like I was slowly cooking alive in this apartment, not from the heat of the summer night but from what had just transpired. The cloud had slowly grown and it felt like the storm had broken over this apartment. Tom sat in his chair, breathing steadily, still burning holes into the carpet with his eyes. He had not looked up since Daisy had left with Gatsby a minute ago. **

**I sat up, breaking the toxic stillness. Taking my jacket from the rack, I glanced at Jordan, who stood up and silently followed me out. Leaving the hotel room, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Walking out of the lobby into the steamy dusk, I wondered briefly if it had really happened, or if I was somehow trapped in a dream, about to wake up to a cool night in my house. A night where I'd sit up, and out of my bedroom window I'd see a full moon, and through the trees, Gatsby's house towering over everything like a beacon, an invitation. Comforted, I would turn back into my bed as the night breeze whistled gently outside.**

**We called a taxi; Jordan and I sat in uncomfortable silence as it wound its way out of the city, away from Tom and the hotel room, through the Valley of Ashes, towards home. **

**Passing by the garage where Wilson scraped by, I noticed with a degree of uneasiness that ****Tom's car was there, parked at a skewed angle beside the pumps****.**

"**Wait - stop the car," I commanded the driver, who pulled over on the shoulder of the road. **

"**Nick? What is it?" Jordan asked; she had been seated on the opposite side, away from the garage.**

"**Stay here," I told her, unlocking the door and stepping out. I knew, with no way of knowing, that something bad had happened, or was about to happen, and, like it or not, I was going to see it. Something in my voice must have convinced her I was serious; as she sat back, her eyes widened, brows furrowed in fear and confusion. I held her gaze a moment longer before turning away from the cab driver's baffled face and Jordan's worry. **

**The dust coated my shoes as I made my way over to the door, which seemed to glare at me as if to intimidate me. I quietly put my hand on the handle, opening it. **

**There was a hall, dimly lit by the light coming from the room at the end of the narrow corridor. Voices drifted over to me as I creeped closer. I recognized Wilson's, normally so bland and weary, raised in anger.**

"**So you're the one what Myrtle was sneaking off with behind my back?"**

**I could imagine Tom's expression just through his tone; he spoke sneeringly, as if he could care less what he was doing with anyone's wife. "That's exactly what I was doing. It was fun for a bit, I guess. Don't worry, though; she doesn't matter to me. She's all yours."**

"**Ho-"**

**Wilson's sharp reply was cut off by the sound of a loud crack upstairs that shook the grimy structure. The sound of swift steps down the stairs warned me; I shrunk back into the dark behind a stack of boxes as Myrtle scurried past, her eyes firmly fixed on the end of the hall.**

**Her enchantment with the scene before her was evident: "Tom, you're really here! Tom, are you going to take me away from here? Tom?" Her voice was shrill with excitement and fervor. **

**There was a pause, then: "Go back to your room, Myrtle. I'm done here." Tom spoke stiffly, coldly.**

"**What are you talking about? Come on, Tom; we're going to run off together! Aren't we?" The voice had now gained an element of desperation.**

**I peeked around the corner; caught up in their dialogue, no one had noticed me. Tom had his back to me, with Myrtle hanging like a jacket at his shoulder and Wilson shooting daggers across the room. As I watched in horrified fascination, Tom casually shrugged Myrtle off and started to turn, as if to go. I shrunk back behind my hiding place.**

**Before he could even turn all the way, Myrtle blocked him. "Tom! Wait! Where are you going? I'm coming with you, remember?" Her hands snatched at his shirt in distress.**

**His face darkened in on itself, twisting. "Get the hell off me!" He roared, grabbing her shoulders and thrusting her away.**

**Wilson dashed forward. "Get your hands off her!" He yelled; Tom turned, meeting him with a punch that threw him back against the wall. He slithered down it into an unmoving heap, a thin line of blood traveling from his nose to his mouth. **

**Tom now turned to Myrtle, who was getting up off the floor where she had fell.**

"**Tom…?" Her voice was more unsteady now. Standing, she looked at him. How she saw a man she wanted to be with, I'll never know. Reaching out, she took his arm.**

"**Let's leave now," she said, pulling toward the hall. "Come on; I'll stay at your place. Your wife won't mind, will she?" she added, almost as an idle thought she had only just considered. **

**Tom snapped. Twisting her arm down with one hand, he raised his other, sending her reeling across the floor.**

**I itched to run away, to get up and stop Tom, but I was frozen, my bones lead and my muscles mush. I could only watch as he stooped over her, lifting her head and hitting her again and again, until she lay ominously still. **

**Cold shot through my veins, though the summer heat made sweat pool on my brow. Tom slowly straightened up, as if his limbs were filled with the stiffness of old age rather than their regular limberness. He stared at the body; his back turned, I could not see his face.**

**I was frightened now, scared of him turning, discovering me, and what he might do to cover his tracks. My life was at stake. I crept down the hall, wishing I could leave behind the horror that crawled over my skin like stinging ants. At the door, I checked to make sure he wasn't aware of my presence; he was crouched over her body, unaware I had ever been there. **

**I left and walked outside to the taxi, still idling outside. Jumping in, I closed the door with shaking hands.**

"**Go. Now." I told the cab driver, who gave me a funny look, but sped away. I let out a shaky breath as we sped away into the night.**

"**Are you okay? What happened? Nick, look at me." Jordan insisted, but I ignored her. She let out a small huff of breath and turned away. **

**It was my burden to bear, at least for now. I was still shaken up about it, the way Tom had effortlessly killed Myrtle. I'd have to go to the authorities, tell them what happened. But Tom was rich, tremendously so, enough that even murder could be covered up. The most he'd get was a couple years jail time, and after that? He'd find a way to track down the informant and eliminate them as easily as swatting a fly. I didn't want to be that fly.**

**Getting out at my house, I barely registered Jordan's frustration at my silence or the cab driver's suspicious stare. I felt as if I was in a fog, an inescapable trap that led to disaster no matter which path I took. I got into bed, not bothering to change out of my clothes, and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.**

**I woke up to the phone ringing. The abrasive noise cut through the sleepiness****; as I got up to answer it, the events from last night flooded back. The hotel, Daisy leaving with Gatsby, and, of course, Tom killing Myrtle. My stomach was a black pit.**

"**Hello?" I said into the mouthpiece.**

**It was Gatsby. His voice, normally honey-smooth, sounded rough around the edges, something I hadn't heard much before. "Nick. I need to discuss something with you. Please come to my house, as quickly as you can." I had barely opened my mouth to give a reply when there was a click, and the line went dead. Gatsby had hung up.**

**I got dressed, freshening myself up to look presentable. I had almost forgotten that Daisy had left with Gatsby, presumably forever. I had been expecting to find his house empty the next morning, he and Daisy on the way to France or Spain or wherever else. His voice comforted me, though worried me in that he hadn't left. Presumably, something had happened between the two of them. Try as I might, I couldn't help but feeling a glimmer of happiness that he was still here.**

**I walked through the front gates and was let in by the butler, who showed me to Gatsby's room. The door was closed; as the butler left, I raised a hand and knocked. **

"**Come in," came a reply; I opened it and found Gatsby sitting at his desk, his hands clasped in his lap. His hair was tousled and several glasses of liquor sat on the desk. **

"**Jay - what happened?" I asked, rather concerned now.**

"**It's…" he shook his head, still staring blankly at the carpet. **

**I took a seat in the chair next to him. Reaching out a hand, I placed it gently on his shoulder.**

"**Tell me what happened with Daisy." **

**He looked strained, as if telling me would make it real, would make it more than just a bad dream. "We came back here," he began. "I wondered if she would have to go back to Tom's house to get her belongings. I was just arranging to have some porters go there when she… she stopped me." The distant look in his eyes showed that he wasn't fully there with me in the room, that half of him was reliving the memory as if he could change it by concentrating hard enough.**

"**Daisy said she didn't need any porters for her things. I asked her if she wanted me to buy her new things, but -" he paused. "She told me she wasn't planning to stay here. She said that she wasn't going to leave Tom, that he was her husband and she still loved him." He shook his head disbelievingly. "She wanted to see me still, but I couldn't - just couldn't look at her. She went back to her house." **

**I could feel his pain, sharp like a thorn, that swarmed around him and seeped over to me. I imagined how it must have unfolded - Gatsby, thinking with every fiber of his being that he and Daisy were going to go off together, then, to have his hopes dashed like that… She was my cousin, but I couldn't help but feel disgust and anger at Daisy's actions. **

**The next feeling I had filled me with tremendous guilt. In a twisted way, I was glad Daisy had told Gatsby how she really felt. I hated to see him like this, but I knew Daisy wasn't right for him, couldn't be. She was a different sort of person, the kind that could do what she wanted and get away with it, with no remorse. She lived for the drama of it, the pitying eyes and the way Gatsby had focused so much on her. I wanted to protect him, to prevent his suffering before it even began, prevent their meeting, at least under those circumstances. Daisy had made him believe that she was possible, that he could achieve anything if he tried hard enough, had enough money to buy a house across for hers, so he could gaze across the water every night. I knew better.**

**As he sat there, head in hands, I knew I had to tell him about last night. He had connections, ways to deal with problem away from the eye of the public. Much as I despised her actions, Daisy was my cousin and I couldn't let her return to the home of a murderer. Gatsby would be furious if he found out I didn't tell him what I knew about Tom.**

"**Jay," I began, "last night, after you left the hotel room, Jordan and I - we took a taxi back to Long Island. Of course, we drove through the Valley of Ashes." I paused, selecting my words carefully before I dared let them roll off my tongue. "Tom's car was parked by the garage, the one owned by Wilson." I could by the way his back stiffened that he was listening. I pushed on.**

"**I told the driver to stop and I got out. Just me, not Jordan; I told her to stay in the car." I didn't mention the feeling of dread that had crept over me as I got out; he'd understand what happened regardless. "I opened the door and walked into a dim hallway. It opened into a room at the very end, where I could hear Tom and Wilson arguing." Gatsby turned his head to look at me intently. The muss on his head fell over his eyes; unlike its usually tidy state. I wanted to push it back into shape, make Gatsby whole again, instead of this crumbled man Daisy had created when she left.**

"**Wilson was accusing Tom of sneaking off with Myrtle. Then, there came a loud crash from upstairs, as if a door had just been busted open. I hid behind some boxes as Myrtle ran down the stairs, too excited to notice me there. She asked Tom when they were leaving, as if she thought he was running off with her. He began to leave, but she blocked him. Something made him just...snap. He threw her onto the floor; Wilson ran up to stop him, but Tom knocked him out." **

**Gatsby had now sat up more, staring at me as I continued my story. His eyes had gained a strange light that had nothing to do with the window that framed us both. **

"**Then he turned back to Myrtle, who had gotten up. She was asking to go, but then she mentioned Daisy...that was the final straw. He beat her, again and again, until she stopped moving." **

**A chill ran down my spine at the memory. Gatsby was still looking at me in the way he did when he was thinking hard about something. **

"**What is it?" I finally asked, breaking the silence.**

"**We have to go," he answered, leaping out of his chair and looking back at me. "She's not safe there." His tone was transparent as to how he felt. I could see his conflict - on one hand, Daisy had betrayed him, scorned his years of trying to find her and building a life where they could both be happy. On the other, he still cared about her, though it had become bitter, soured by her dismissal that they were ever anything more than a fling, something that could easily be forgotten and covered up until it was gone forever. **

**I, too, cared about her; she was, after all, my cousin. I could not, would not ever forgive her for what she had done to Gatsby, but she did not deserve what had happened to Myrtle. **

**I got up, without saying a word. He already knew my answer.**

**The drive to East Egg was tense with our worries, unspoken but unanimous. We parked in the road and walked to the gate and down the driveway. Tom's car, normally parked in front, was gone; what this meant, we did not know.**

**I was about to knock on the door when a blast rang out through the still morning. As Gatsby and I exchanged apprehensive glances, another sounded. The commotion had come from behind the left side of the mansion; we ran around to where a maze-like garden of rosebushes stood. The ****cloyingly sweet smell** **wreathed lazily around the lawn in the cool ****zephyr** **that blew in from the sea.**

**Running down the corridor of foliage, I ground to a halt and stared in horror at what lay in the center. Daisy was slumped down face first in the grass, a dark pool gathering around her head. **

**Gatsby ran past me and kneeled next to her, not noticing or caring about the blood that soaked his pants. Gently lifting her up, he cradled in his arms. **

"**Daisy." His voice was gentle and raw as he smoothed her hair. She looked like a doll in his arms; her skin porcelain but her cheeks still rosy. **

**It felt like my throat was closing up as I kneeled next to him silently, putting a hand on his back. It could have been several seconds or hours later when a groundskeeper and a maid came running, then called the police. **

**It was all a blur when I tried remembering it later; like a fragmented mosaic of images and words that you try to reach out and grab, but can't quite touch. I faintly remember giving an officer my name, and police cars parked on the lawn, crushing the green grass into mud. **

**They found Wilson's body a couple hundred feet away, with a gun in his hand; evidently he had shot Daisy, then himself. Gatsby had refused to let Daisy leave his arms; eventually two officers had to pry him away so they could take her in a van to the coroner. **

**At first his eyes had filled with a wild light, and it seemed as if he intended to attack them, but then the light died and he slumped miserably into submission. He let be led into his car, where he sat looking blankly into space until I finished describing to the officer what I saw. I drove him home, his gaze never wandering from the window the whole ride. I walked him in, bringing him to his room. Assuming he wanted to be alone, I turned to leave and was surprised to hear his voice behind me, making me halt.**

"**Nick - wait."**

**I turned as he looked up, the ****hapless** **expression in his face betraying his pain.**

"**Stay with me. Please."**

**Not wanting to be alone either, I spent the night at his house. At some point, late in the night, a servant had arrived with a bottle of Scotch, which was emptied; then another. I lost count of the number of amber-colored glasses I downed, the ****warm flavor heating my throat and insides** **as the hours grew later and my alertness began to fade. Finally, I slept, a restless, disturbed sleep filled with images of Daisy with flowers falling from her head and Gatsby sobbing on a brilliantly green lawn.**

**For the next few weeks, Gatsby's normally eloquent manner turned ****laconic****, his voice shrunk to a near whisper and the life in his voice gone, replaced by a quiet emptiness that frightened me more than if he had screamed maniacally at me. He was not only grieving for Daisy, but for the fact she died loving Tom. I stayed at his house most nights, returning home only when I needed something, like clothes. After several trips there, I was surprised one morning to find a neat stack of shirts, pants, and blazers arranged on a chair in the guest bedroom in which I had been staying. This was my first sign that Gatsby was starting to come back to who he was before Daisy happened.**

**The sweltering weather gained a crispness as summer faded to autumn and flowers began to wilt. Gatsby had begun to regain his personality, as he slowly but surely became able to appreciate what he once had. I was glad of this, to see his resilience after what he had been put through. We spent many nights enjoying the last of the summer warmth before it succumbed to chill nighttime breezes and we fled to the comfort of indoors. **

**It was nearing the end of August one night in particular. We had eaten dinner outside and sat chatting as the day faded. It was getting cold; as the sun shrank behind the trees, I took my jacket off the back of my chair and put it on. Gatsby, noticing the incoming night, suggested we go in. I followed him upstairs and instinctually went to turn into my room; however, he stopped, looking back, as if he wanted me to come. Wordlessly I followed him into his study. He sat at one of the stuffed leather chairs arranged around a coffee table; I sat across from him, curious why he had invited me here.**

"**I want to thank you, Nick," he began, looking at me seriously. "You've been an awful help to me in these past few months. I mean it, old sport. I don't know what I would have done without you."**

"**You're welcome," I replied sincerely.**

"**Honestly, I just don't know how to thank you. Without you here, making sure I wasn't slipping into a deep pit of despair and helping me rehabilitate myself…" he shook his head. **

"**I couldn't have watched that happen to you," I replied, "and stood here doing nothing about it. You're too great a man for that." I meant every word, with no hint of flattery.**

**He smiled at me gratefully. "I must ask why. Why care at all? If there's anything I've learned, it's that it's a dog-eat-dog world; every man for himself. What would make you have any sort of debt or responsibility towards me - what would it matter to you if I were to sink into my sorrows, past the point of no return?" This was a legitimate question, indeed; after Daisy's death, Jordan had left on some golf tournament without a word to any of us. The papers had said the funeral was private; and showed a blurry photo of Tom and his child standing at a coffin as a priest read from the Bible. After that, he disappeared, his house vacant and empty and his whereabouts unknown. As for justice for the death of Myrtle - well, if Tom ever showed up, I'd try to see what could be done, but considering he had practically disappeared off the face of the earth, I figured that would have to do for now. **

**As to my own motives, however, I could say all I wanted that it was just a simple favor, that anyone would do what I had to help Gatsby, but I knew this was not true. The words for my true feelings did not exist, not as formulated sentences, but only as feelings, repressed in the dark corners of my mind. It was unthinkable, yet undeniably, shockingly true. I had never been interested in what every other young man had been since the age of thirteen. The desire of getting a wife had not struck me as a pursuit I wished to follow; instead, I would rather court the men who asked me if a particular somebody had struck my eye, to which my answer was always neutral. It was not something anyone acknowledged, let alone accepted. It did not happen. There was no chance Gatsby felt the same. **

"**Well," I said, thinking quickly, "I would never have known you in the first place had it not been for my invitation to one of your parties. It opened my eyes to-"**

**Gatsby held up one hand, a hint of humor on his face. "Nick, please do not lie to me. I know there's something on your mind - I can see you tapping the arm of the chair nervously. Tell me what it is you're so hesitant to share." **

**What was the worst thing that could happen? I asked myself. Gatsby could call the police, have me thrown in jail, perhaps, but surely I couldn't be held for too long. It was rising up inside me, like a corked flame, the words struggling to break loose. I had to tell him, no matter the consequences. It was something I had had beaten down, suffocated inside me for my whole life. If there was any time to say it, I knew I had to now. I took a deep breath. My throat felt like I had tried swallowing gravel. **

**I told him. I told him everything as he sat there, expressionlessly, watching me silently with nary a twitch of his eyebrow to express how he felt. Though worrying, this neutral reaction reassured me that he did not intend to have me dragged away by his guards - not yet, anyway. I finished and sat back, surprisingly tired by my explanation and confession of why I had really stayed with him through those months. **

**Gatsby sat back in his chair and eyed me for a minute. I began to get up.**

"**I'll be going now," I said. I couldn't look at him. "I'm just going to get my things from my room. Thank you for letting me stay for so long." The words rolled dully off my tongue. "If you're going to have the guards throw me out now, I understand." I nodded curtly, still avoiding his gaze as I made my way to the door.**

"**Nick, stop." He commanded from behind me. "I'll do no such thing. Have the guards throw you out? Who do you think I am, a barbarian? Come, sit back down here." He gestured toward the chair I had just left.**

**I sat back down. Was Gatsby not upset by what I had just told him? The suppressed feeling had festered so long in my head that I hadn't anticipated what it'd actually be like to tell someone, much less expect a positive reaction.**

**What he told me next shocked me. When he had first met me, it was as a way of getting to reunite with Daisy. As time went on, though, he had begun to feel differently about me, feelings he kept hidden as he pursued Daisy. He had thought, as we all did, that Daisy was leaving Tom for him, but after her death he realized how he really felt toward me. The feeling grew as the anguish of Daisy's death dulled, and when I told him a few minutes ago my reasons for looking after him, he realized now was the time to tell me everything. **

**I couldn't believe it, that we felt the same way toward each other, secretly thinking we were alone in our feelings. It began to sink in, and I started to wonder, then, what the future meant, with this revelation now open. Gatsby was wealthy, and with that came that certain level of privacy enjoyed by higher classes. It was possible to do many things without a word getting out. The idea that this could work, actually work, was forming, which I expressed to him. **

**Considering we both felt the same, there would be no possibility or reason to not try, at least, to keep this secret. As long as there was an element of privacy we maintained, nothing was impossible in the scope of immense fortune and privilege. **

**It was past midnight when we stopped talking; wearily we retired to the large bed in Gatsby's room. The window was open, and a soft breeze cooled the room as I pulled the covers up, already half-asleep. The ****cool touch of the linen sheets** **and the idea that what had seemed so impossible was achievable lulled me into a dreamless sleep.**

**In the morning, we stood at the balcony to watch the sunrise****. Gazing at his face, lit by the rising amber glow, I was struck by how much he had changed since Daisy's death. I recalled how he had withdrawn in the months after, as if experiencing the world without her was of no purpose. Grieving is naturally a slow process, and eventually he had begun to heal, though he'd carry the weight of her memory with him forever. So would I - we all would, in fact, all of us touched by that one summer that ended so violently. I will never see Daisy as a good person, though I feel pity for her death. I wonder sometimes: if she had lived, would it have ended so dramatically anyways? It was bound to happen, and I suppose Daisy's death was a sort of fundamental karma, an end to the mess she had created. **

**A cool breeze blew in from the bay, carrying the faint scent of saltwater. I breathed it in, with a growing sense of unspoken wonder at the view before me. How many countless times had the sun risen over the horizon over the eons; how many more would rise without fail in the years to come? The circumstances were irrelevant to that great behemoth of fire in the sky, the beacon praised by ancient peoples for the fact of life itself. I did not know what tomorrow brought, but I knew I could live today as if the rays had cleansed me with their touch. I was here now, gazing at the morning's arrival with Gatsby by my side, not as a source of anxiety with his pursuit of Daisy, but as something more, something I had never dreamed possible. **

**I had given up on the thought of being happy, at least in that aspect, long ago, but it was now as if a barricaded door had been opened on a dark space, allowing the sunlight to fill every crevice with hope, the promise of a future with someone more than myself. It was euphoric, enlightening, cleansing, a feeling I had always secretly dreamed of, a freedom I was forbidden to experience. But, here, in front of the sunrise today, I felt true hope for the first time, the profound realization that wherever life may take me, I was not alone, so long as there was someone else, another person who I could share my life with that understood without any spoken word the bond that we both shared. **

**So we stood there, Gatsby and I, together in the growing daylight, our minds on the future and our backs to the past.**


End file.
